All done!

Andy's been chatting up a storm lately.  He's very good at saying thank you, and says thank you all the time- even to himself. The other day, he came out of the bathroom after flushing the toilet (he doesn't use the toilet otherwise, except to flush) and said proudly, "Thank you, Andy!"  Chris looked at me, bewildered.  "Why did Andy just come out of the bathroom thanking himself?" he asked.

"He's thanking himself for doing such a good job flushing the toilet," I responded.  "Duh."

Andy thanks himself when he throws his sippy cup into the sink, when he fetches his shoes, and when he shares a toy.  He thanks me when I give him the kind of food that borders somewhere between processed and junk.  "Thank you, Mommy!" Andy exclaims when I give him a sugary raspberry cereal bar.  And if I don't reply right away, Andy will point frenetically down at his cereal bar and declare loudly, more forcefully, "THANK YOU MOMMY."

"You're welcome, Andy," I'll reply, and then he will commence turning his cereal bar into three million cereal bar crumbs.

We watched "Ice Age" a couple weeks ago.  That's the one where the woolly mammoth (or elephant, if you're Andy) takes care of the baby before returning him to his parents.  Andy had a lot of questions about why the "elephant" was watching the baby.  "Baby mommy?  Mommy baby?  Daddy baby?"  he kept asking, wanting to know where the baby's parents were.  "The elephant is taking good care of the baby for the mommy and daddy," I explained.  "Isn't that so nice?"  Andy stared thoughtfully at the television and then shouted, "Thank you, elephant!"  I was amazed that Andy knew to thank the "elephant" for taking care of that baby.  I also, instantly, felt better about the amount of television Andy's been watching lately.  Television is fostering Andy's manners.  Who says too much TV is bad?

The nurse at Andy's two year appointment last week had asked me, "How much television does Andy watch per day?"  I responded, shamefully, "Quite a bit, lately, since Alex has been born."  To which the nurse replied, "One hour a day?  Two?"  I muttered back, "Yeah, something like that."  Let's see, a feature film is about two hours.  Multiply that by three, throw in a couple of Yo Gabba Gabbas and Caillous.... Oh dear.  We're looking at double digits some days, I'm afraid.

But I have the ultimate excuse for that.  Thank you, newborn Alex!

Anyway, while I find Andy's thank yous to be rather adorable, Andy does have another phrase that I CANNOT STAND.  It is:

All done!

Worst two words ever.  Andy will take one look at a meal I've carefully prepared for him and declare "All done!" without even touching it.  He won't even give me the courtesy of pretending to eat some and then spitting it out into a napkin when I'm not looking, the little brat.  I'll implore, "Just have one bite, Andy."  And, as if I'm deaf and possibly retarded, Andy will repeat, louder, clearer, and more carefully:  "All. DONE."

"All done" unfortunately doesn't just apply to food.  Oh no, if that were the case, then maybe it would be just slightly more tolerable.  The "all done" basically applies to good behavior.  "All done," Andy will say the second he's done being good.  At the grocery store a week or two ago, I had Andy riding in the front part of the cart, the part that some clever, wonderful individual fashioned into a little red car, complete with a steering wheel.  He had been having fun in his shopping cart car for a little bit when abruptly, somewhere near the dairy section, he proclaimed, "All done," climbed out, and took off at a gallop towards a precariously arranged pyramid of yogurt.

I had Andy "cooking" the other day, compiling a snack of celery sticks, peanut butter, and raisins.  As I showed him how to arrange the raisins on the peanut butter coated celery stick, he looked up at me as if to say how lame the whole thing was and muttered, "All done" before launching himself off of his chair and strolling off towards the sleeping baby with two peanut butter coated hands.

Not having fun in the bath?  All done.  Not thrilled to be wearing pants?  All done.  Awaking from a deep sleep at three thirty in the morning?  All. Done.  All done is Andy's one stop shop for making my life twenty to thirty percent more frustrating.

The thing is, I taught him all done.  It's funny how these kids use your words against you.  "All done?" I'd ask, constantly, after every snack and meal had been completely finished.  And now I have my words thrown back in my face, a whipped cream topped pie of frustration.

At least Andy's not "all done" with Alex yet.  I keep waiting for Andy to glance over at the baby on one especially screamy morning and dismiss him with a loud "All done."  So far, so good- Andy seems to like his brother.  I think "love" would be too strong a word at this point, but I feel confident in a "like."  Andy gives Alex hugs and kisses without being prompted.  At first, I thought Andy was only doing it in front of me in order to elicit some mommy praise.  But, the other day, I left Alex on a blanket in the living room with Andy sitting next to him (the television blared "The Magic School Bus" series, thank you public library for stocking so many bus themed items), and slipped to the other room for a quick minute.  When I came back, Andy was bent over, hugging his little brother and giving him a kiss on the cheek.  Best moment ever.  Especially since, I realize, leaving an infant and a toddler alone together in a room could have gone one of two ways.  I'm thankful it went the good way.

And now to end this blog entry as Andy would:

All done.